


they break before they're made (sometimes)

by corduroy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Confusion, First Kiss, Germany U21, M/M, a little bit dramatic i apologize, losing a match, this is about that awful game vs portugal if you remember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:19:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6156373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corduroy/pseuds/corduroy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So. How long?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	they break before they're made (sometimes)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :)
> 
> so I've had this in my drafts since last June. The game vs Portugal at the u21 championship was pretty (very) bad and Leo was kinda an idiot so of course some angst had to go down and this happened. Feedback is very verrryyy appreciated. 
> 
> unbeta'ed, as fictional as fiction can get, these are simply characters, and i do not nor will i ever own anybody. Thank you so so much for reading if you do!

He should really go see Saskia or call his mother. They will be expecting to hear from him. But Leo doesn’t want to move. He’s willing his body to morph into the mattress when someone has the audacity to fucking knock on his door. The perpetrator walks in without a response; he always does and always will. Knocking is simply a nicety.

The room is pitch black. Leo feigns sleep, but Mo’s not stupid. The mattress dips when he lies beside Leo. Leo doesn’t look. Moritz crosses his feet and plays with a handful of the expensive fabric between them.

Leo was supposed to start, but he didn’t. Then he was supposed to come on and grasp for any slim chance they may have had left. Instead, he goes in like fucking Batman or Sergio Ramos on a few challenges and finds himself back in the dressing room after 24 minutes. Brilliant. Goodbye, Prague.

It finally registers that this is the reality of playing for Germany. It’s seven goals up or shit storm with a handful of uninspired draws scattered in. Four golden stars crown their crest, but the time in between is bronze. Or worse.

If this competition doesn’t actually mean anything, it meant something to them. Nobody on the squad exactly had fairytale seasons, except maybe Marc. They were meant to win and give everybody hope. They meant to solidify a gilded age in German football, to be the team to point at and say, “See? Even our kids are winners.”

But Leo doesn’t want to talk about it. Mo seems to be on the same page.

Leo tries to drain his thoughts and focuses on Mo’s slow breathing. They fall in synch and the knots unravel in Leo’s throat. Even with his back to Mo and his eyes shut, Leo can see him. He has his eyes closed too, head tipped back on the headboard, one hand on his stomach. His other is still resting on the duvet near Leo, waiting.

It goes like this: Amin is the small one, Ginter the awkward one, Emre the handsome one, and so on. That makes Leo and Mo the funny ones. The happy ones. That’s certainly not an insult, but it can be pressure. Nobody can see them right now. If Mo and Leo are upset, then everybody else must be fucked. Leo is infinity percent sure Matze is rage crying in the shower. But forget trying to make anybody smile. Leo isn’t confident that he can open his eyes.

Leo is so tired.

There is a shift on the bed and Moritz is gone. Footsteps pad along the carpet. They don’t lead to the door.

Mo’s knee cracks as he crouches. His breath smells like Cherry Coke and plays across the bridge of Leo’s nose. Heat washes down Leo from his forehead through his neck to the pit of his stomach. He moves into the warmth pouring from Moritz with a nudge of his neck. Their noses bump together.

Why is the air conditioning on? Leo shivers like the rain is storming through his hotel room. Mo scalds him with a sudden bare hand resting on his ribs. Leo freezes. 

Leo has heard stories like this before. He’s been told about teammates losing it together in hotel rooms after big upsets. The thoughts are screaming in Leo’s head that _this doesn’t matter_ and he shouldn’t be disappointed but. This is something he’s dedicated his life to, and he let them down. Every win is another chance, but every loss is six steps back. Loss will hurt, but conceding five goals is karma bitch-slapping them blind.

He’ll feel fine in the morning.

Memories and Cherry Cola hit Leo with each inhale. Mo’s breath is Lidocaine for Leo’s aching mind as they keep together, steady. Mo climbs onto the bed and Leo accommodates for his body. If Mo pushes, Leo yields. Their knees are touching like their noses and Mo leans in more to grip Leo’s shoulders, his fingertips smoother than Leo's. Soft eyelashes brush Leo's skin and wet hair presses against his forehead. The cheap citrus smell still lingers from the hotel shampoo.

Leo feels Moritz blink. He opens his eyes.

Leo is hyperaware of their touching skin. Mo’s eyes are still blue but different. Mo is somewhere else. He is always somewhere else…

Mo does it first.

He’s 22, wearing training bottoms, and his hair is damp and lemony when he first kisses Leo. Water trickles from his hair into Leo’s scrunched eyes and their teeth clatter together but Leo doesn’t care. He reciprocates and swallows what Mo gives him. Give and take, give and take. Then Mo pulls away.

“I’m sorry, Leo.”

One of Leo’s favourite things is a hot shower after training in the winter. The steam puts the life back in his feet. He would stay in the water forever if he could.

If Moritz thinks he’s leaving, he’s mistaken.

Mo tries to stand but Leo pulls him back in. His mind is static but Mo is crystal clear. The grimace painting Moritz’s face doesn’t lie. Leo brushes his lips down Mo’s throat and hears no mysteries in the noises that fill his ears. Leo smiles.

“So, Mo. How long?”

He doesn’t want a reply. Leo isn’t sure where he stands. He falls under Mo’s body instead.

They hold still. Mo has his eyes closed with color branching up his face like ivy. Leo can’t quit, not now. He runs his hands up the arms that bar him in and traces Mo’s shoulders. Thin cotton shirts suddenly feel illegal. Leo plays at hems and waistbands. Mo looks like he could vomit.

“Really fast, Leo,” he mumbles. He drops his head to Leo’s chest and their bodies knit together.

Just like that.

When did Leo lose his mind? The bags under his eyes might know. This stopped being about _you lost 5-0 you suck_ the second Mo touched him. But what the fuck it’s about, ask Leo later. No need to jump to conclusions.

Mo looks awfully cozy. They can think about it tomorrow.

Or the day after that.

**Author's Note:**

> song from someday by the strokes
> 
> thank you again for reading x


End file.
